love is a dog from hell
by anamericanmarriage
Summary: Scenes from inside of a bank vault.


This is a re-post from AO3. Edited just the barest bit. Title is from the eponymous poem by Charles Bukowski.

* * *

"Mm, your fur is so _soft_ ," Stewie slurs, running his chubby little fingers through it. Brian remembers seeing Stewie's hands for the first time in that hospital room and having to excuse himself for a smoke out in the parking lot. There'd been a girl there, too, no older than sixteen, with a nose piercing and a grandmother in the ICU, and Brian could have taken her back to the car or maybe behind the bushes and fucked her if his paws weren't visibly shaking when he offered her his lighter. You can't have sex when your body feels like it's going to vibrate apart.

(Actually, yes, you can. Brian's done it plenty of times. Looking back, it was a shitty excuse, though probably for the best.)

Brian is too drunk to tell Stewie to stop and Stewie is too drunk to listen to him, anyway. Besides, it feels good. Grounding, even.

* * *

In time, Brian will learn that Stewie is God, or God _like_ , or whatever you'd call the ostensible creator of the universe, but, for now, his impression is more that Stewie is a devil, a pint-sized demon sent from Hell to make Brian's life that much more difficult to navigate.

Not that he believes in Hell, of course.

"Does that feel good, boy?" Stewie smirks, tugging at the fur behind Brian's ears with one hand and fondling his balls in the other. A lifetime of sleeping with human women used to more... _endowed_ partners has left him feeling bizarrely and sickly proud of how big his cock looks in relation to Stewie's hand. He'd feel even prouder if Stewie wasn't the one clearly and unambiguously steering this ship right into the fucking rocks.

"I asked you a question, Brian," he says, sterner this time.

"Yeah," Brian says meekly, voice nearly a whisper, as if someone were in close enough proximity to hear him. If that were the case, they wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place.

"'Yeah'...?" Stewie prompts.

"Yeah, that feels good," Brian adds.

Stewie grins, pleased with himself. Pleased with Brian, too, which is all that really matters in the end.

* * *

"I'd kill myself if you killed yourself," Stewie tells him, "so we should probably make an official suicide pact. Like, in writing and everything. Get it over with. Actually, we should do that as soon as we get out of here."

"I'm not making a suicide pact with you, Stewie!" Brian yells. Stewie flinches, but Brian finds it difficult to lower his voice. "You have so much to live for. Don't kill yourself because of me."

"Then you have to promise not to kill yourself, either," Stewie insists. "Besides, what are you going to do if I kill myself? You're already dead."

"I'll kick your ass once you get to Heaven," he says.

"I thought that you didn't believe in Heaven. Or Hell, for that matter, which is probably where we'd both end up, anyway."

"It was a joke," Brian says weakly.

Stewie hums noncommittally.

* * *

Brian's starving and all of Stewie's Anytime Bars are gone, so he bites the bullet and eats the dead bird's bones.

"Won't bone shards kill you if you ingest them?" Stewie asks curiously. "I'm pretty sure that they weren't made to be eaten. I'm pretty sure that dogs have literally died that way before."

Brian sucks on one of the tiny wing bones and doesn't answer.

* * *

"You told me that I looked like a fag," Stewie murmurs sleepily, head digging uncomfortably into the fleshiest part of Brian's side. "What does a fag look like to you, Brian?"

"Look, I'm sorry that I called you a fag," Brian answers. "I lashed out because you made me feel bad about myself. I regret it."

"Thank you for apologizing, but that's not what I asked. What does a fag look like to you, Brian?" he repeats. "You don't have to worry about offending me. I just want to know what's on your mind."

"Well," Brian begins hesitantly, "I guess a fag is...I mean, it's a gay guy, of course, but, like, an effeminate one. Like Jasper."

"Are you calling your own cousin a fag?" Stewie asks incredulously. "Some kind of cousin you are!"

"Hey, you said that you wouldn't get offended!"

"Well, that's before I knew how homophobic you were!"

"Goddamn it, Stewie, you know that I'm not homophobic! If I were, would I - " He stops himself and switches gears. "Why are you so offended? Are you gay?"

"How do I know? I'm just a baby," Stewie answers slyly.

* * *

"It's a good thing that we destroyed that security camera," Stewie notes, giggling as Brian laps at his naked stomach. "You could go to jail for this."

"Don't remind me," Brian sighs. "Are you comfortable? I know that the floor is pretty cold. And hard."

"That's not the only thing that's hard," Stewie jokes before his face softens. "Thanks for checking in with me, though, Brian. Communication is key, after all."

"Key to what, exactly?"

"A healthy relationship," Stewie clarifies.

Brian takes his mouth off of Stewie and promptly vomits all over the floor.

* * *

"It's a good thing that we destroyed that security camera," Stewie notes, giggling as he takes Brian's cock into his mouth. "I could go to jail for this."

"None of the women that I've slept have gone to jail," Brian reminds him. "I don't think that it counts as bestiality when you're capable of intelligent thought - _fuck_ , that feels good. Where did you learn to suck cock?"

He regrets asking the question as soon as it comes out of his mouth, but Stewie doesn't take the inadvertent bait. "Who ever said that you were capable of intelligent thought?" he quips, pulling off of Brian's cock briefly before going back down.

* * *

Brian has always secretly loathed being the big spoon. He's always secretly felt a lot of things, some of which are felt so secretly that he won't even admit to himself that he feels them at all, but this is one that he can cop to without feeling too bad about himself. At least he's only ever wanted to be the little spoon with women.

Stewie covers him with his sweater as he shivers on the floor, the Glenfiddich rolling around in his stomach like a tidal wave. "It doesn't matter if I get dog hair on this, I guess," he remarks snidely before joining Brian on the floor and curling around his body like a snake. "It's not like I can get a refund for it now, anyway."

"I think I'm dying," Brian sobs dryly. "Stewie, I think I'm dying."

"We're all dying, Bry," he says. "The bird skeleton inside of you probably isn't helping."

* * *

"When we get out of here, are we still going to...you know..." Stewie trails off awkwardly.

"Nope," Brian deadpans.

* * *

"When we get out of here, you're going to fuck me in Lois and the fat man's bed," Stewie promises, kissing Brian right on his big, black nose. Brian turns his head and sneezes. His cheeks feel like they were doused in lighter fluid and set on fire. "It'll be so much fun. We won't even clean up after ourselves. We'll let them know exactly who was in their bed, who was getting fucked by their dog, who was fucking their son."

* * *

"When we get out of here, will you buy me an ice cream cone?" Stewie pleads, eyes big and shining wet.

"Sure, buddy," Brian says, smiling gently. "I'll buy you anything that you want."

* * *

Brian carries him out of the vault like a bride. He sleeps soundly all the way home.


End file.
